


Two People Who Sound Like Jensen Ackles, a Whole Lot of Spandex, and a Possessed Cassandra Cain (Everybody’s Screwed)

by Hinn_Raven



Series: Crossover Weekend [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Batboys Meet Winchesters, Crossover, Gen, Humor, mentions of demonic possession, voice acting jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2013-11-26
Packaged: 2018-01-02 16:46:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinn_Raven/pseuds/Hinn_Raven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bat Boys meet the Winchesters. It all goes swimmingly. </p><p>or</p><p>"A bunch muscular men are crowded around a classic car. All are armed. They all are brothers, although they aren’t all brothers to each other."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two People Who Sound Like Jensen Ackles, a Whole Lot of Spandex, and a Possessed Cassandra Cain (Everybody’s Screwed)

A bunch muscular men are crowded around a classic car. All are armed. They all are brothers, although they aren’t all brothers to each other.

“Why are you wearing spandex?” A tall man with brown hair and multi-colored eyes asks, crossing his arms over his plaid shirt, which he wears unbuttoned over a battered t-shirt. He’s a pretty man, in his early to mid thirties. His hands are scarred, and he stands like a soldier. His name is Dean Winchester, and he wants answers.

“You’re just jealous you can’t pull it off,” a man with inky hair and a mask that covers his baby blue eyes snarks, wiggling his fingers, showing off the stripes that travel down his shoulders to his middle and ring fingers. The rest of his outfit is skin-tight black spandex, which shows off a well-muscled chest and a finely toned behind. He goes by Nightwing, and his smile is confident as he deliberately ignores the guns the others are carrying.

Dean and his brother, ridiculously tall, handsome, and shaggy-haired Sam Winchester, snort. Sam shakes his head, and shoots a grin at the other men (and a boy, but he’s busy sulking, so he’s not going to speak up for a little while yet.)

“Sam Winchester,” the freakishly-tall man says, extending his hand.

“The serial killer?” Asks the eighteen-year-old, also with surprisingly black hair, which, like Sam’s, is in need of a hair cut. His spandex is red and black, he wears a cape and a domino mask. (Luckily for everybody involved, has has ditched the condom-cowl, which would have tempted some rather crude jokes.) Red Robin, better known to the public as Timothy Drake-Wayne (very few people have made the connection, fortunately), looks like he is about to whip out a bunch of high tech gadgets and slam the overgrown Winchester into the trunk of the 1967 Chevy Impala, despite the fact that he stands at a mere 5’ 4”, a good foot shorter than Sam. He sounds _dangerous_ , despite his short stature and his slight build.

“Shapeshifters,” The Winchesters chorus, shoulders shifting into a defensive position, both calculating how long it would take them to reach for their weapons. They prepare to enter a fight they have no chance of winning. Not that they do that a lot or anything. Nope.

Nightwing flinches sympathetically. “Oooh, that sucks,” he says. “Alien or...”

“Supernatural,” Dean says, shrugging slightly, eyes darting between the sons of Batman, unsure whether or not they’re about to attack him and his brother. “Like that demon that’s possessed that scary-lady-friend of yours.”

“Cass was possessed by a _demon_?” Tim demands, voice going remarkably soprano. The idea of his foster-sister being controlled by an evil force ( _again_ ) is not a pleasant one. He begins to run through all the contingencies he has ever created, trying to think of how he could possibly take one down. Sadly, he has had very little experience with demons, outside of the realm of fiction, that is.  

“We’re screwed,” announces the only one who hasn’t spoken yet, a man in a red domino mask with hair that’s dark, but not quite as dark as Tim or Dick’s. His mask conceals his blue-green eyes, and he wears a leather jacket , kevlar under-shirt and combat boots, a far cry from his brothers. He carries a gun in exactly the same place as Dean, and carries the same amount of knives.

“No _kidding_ ,” Dean snarks, looking at the wooded area around the Impala, where four trashed motorcycles, a lot of splinters, and a few dozen toppled trees can be seen, all artistically destroyed and scattered. Cass’s possession had been... eventful.

Sam stares between the two previous speakers. “Dean... he sounds like you.” He is unsure whether he should be awed, horrified, or laughing. He settles for a wide-eyed look.

“Which one? Spandex, haircut, or jacket?” Dean rolls his eyes, prepared to mock his baby brother. Tim Drake prickles at the nickname, deliberately not touching his hair, which most definitely doesn’t need a haircut. Or a trim. Shut up, he likes it like that.

“Jacket,” Sam says, nodding towards the one in question.

“It’s _Hood,_ not Jacket,” complains Jason Todd.

“What?”

“Red Hood. It’s my name.”

Dean stares at the Red Hood, incredulous. “Seriously.”

“I normally wear one,” Jason defends himself. (The helmet in question has been crushed into pieces by Cass.)

“Uh-huh.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Oh my God,” Tim looks slightly queasy. “They _do_ sound alike.”

“No we don’t!” Jason and Dean chorus, glaring at Tim.

“Yes you do,” Sam says, trying and failing to hid a smirk.

The two turn surprisingly similar glares on to the younger, taller, Winchester. The two are almost the same height, giving an even-more-comical moment into the whole situation.

“Ttt.” Damian Wayne, ten years old, precocious, assassin-raised, stubborn and superior, snorts and crosses arms. “Why does it matter? We need to focus on _Cain_.”

“Point,” Dick concedes, although he looks like he would love to pursue this amusing train of conversation further. Probably until it went over the cliff and exploded into a full blown fist fight, like all of his extended metaphors tended to turn into eventually. “Well, do you two have any idea for taking on a demonically possessed assassin-turned-superhero? Who can beat Batman in a fight?”

The two hunters exchange looks. Very cautious looks. “We could catch her in a devil’s trap and hope we can exorcise her before she gets killed?” Sam suggested, shrugging oversized shoulders.

“Are you kidding me? An exorcism? Please tell me there’s no pea soup,” said Jason, running his hands through his hair.

“No pea soup. Lotta smoke though,” Dean said, still in denial about the similarities between the two of them. Interestingly, both of them are among the very few humans in history to ever have to dig out of a grave post-mortem. They also both have a fondness for guns, explosions, nice cars, diner food, and leather jackets. (And both have tremendous daddy-issues, but they’d both shoot you before admitting it.)

“How do we get her in a devil’s trap?” Dick asks practically, still smiling.

“Well,” Sam says, popping open the lid to the trunk of the Impala, “First we’re going to need...”


End file.
